In the sudden silence, they heard one of the hooker’s voices, low and scratchy from too many cigarettes, “—little fucker. Not my fault he came in his pants. I tried to be nice. I did.”
“Keep it down.” The pimp’s voice.
“Fuck you, pussy. You’re supposed to be here to keep an eye on things. Make sure shit like this don’t happen. Little fucker didn’t have to hit me.” The scratching click of a lighter, then a long exhale. “Rich little fucker.”
Suddenly Sturm wasn’t standing at the screen door anymore. The men heard his voice, clear as daylight. “Miss. I’m gonna ask you once. Put that cigarette out. No one smokes in this house. I mean it.”
“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are you little freak, but I will not be treated like—” Her voice broke off suddenly in a faint crunch. And just as suddenly, it was back, twice as loud, “BATHTARD! You—”
Then a thud. A scream. Slamming doors. Sturm’s voice, calm, even. “Get this stupid cunt out of my house.”
A hooker came sliding into the kitchen on her face. Her mouth left ragged streaks of blood and fresh purple lipstick on the floor. Sturm followed, knotted her long, plastic, blond hair in his fist, and yanked her to her knees.
The pimp said, “Back the fuck off, dude. I will fuckin’ kill you.”
Sturm slammed the hooker’s face into one of the cabinets. “Do it then.”
The pimp didn’t look happy about it. He licked the sides of his mustache and mumbled, “Shit man. Now why did you do that for?”
Sturm did it again. The woman moaned, blood bubbling from her nose. “You got shit in your ears, faggot?”
The pimp took off his sunglasses, made a show of putting them in his pocket.
Sturm slammed her head into the cabinet a third time, this time cracking the wood.
The pimp popped his right foot at Sturm’s chest in the blink of an eye, but Sturm was faster. He swung the hooker in front of him and so the pimp kicked her in the side of her head. The pimp resettled himself, and was just about to launch a series of kicks and punches that must have looked impressive in the gym, but Sturm broke the pimp’s nose with his free hand. The pimp’s head snapped back and blood actually hit the ceiling.
“Like I said, get this stupid cunt out of my house.”
The two other hookers, who had been hiding in the hall, finally came into the kitchen, helped the pimp to his feet and dragged the unconscious woman out the front door.
“You set foot in this town again and I guarantee you I will put a bullet in you,” Sturm said from the front steps. The two hookers dumped their business associates in the back seat and were smart enough not to say anything, just slammed the doors. The minivan took off with a jerk and a cloud of dust and gravel. They didn’t even turn on the headlights until they were safely down the long driveway.
* * * * *
Sturm pulled Frank aside. “Listen, do me a favor, would you? Would you go out and find my son, make sure he’s okay? Maybe even talk to him. I’d ask one of the boys, but I think Theo’s been through enough tonight. They’re liable to give him a hard time, and you, well, I think you got enough sense to realize…well, hell he’s at that age, you know. Don’t want to listen to anybody, really, much less his father.”
“Sure.” Frank went down the stairs and stood at the far edge of the garden for a few moments, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. A few minutes ago, his head had been swimming merrily along thanks to the fifth of rum. But now, standing out in the dark under enough stars to make a man go mad, he suddenly felt uncomfortably sober. His sweat felt cold and he shivered. The crickets were quiet. Even the mosquitoes had holed up for the night.
Truth was, he was scared. He didn’t think he’d been this nervous since he’d had to talk to the cops outside the gas station. Theo was one goddamn cruel bastard. At least, with the clowns, you could see it coming if they lost their temper. With Sturm’s son, you never knew what the hell he was thinking. Frank wouldn’t put it past him to fling a pitchfork or something just because he didn’t want to be bothered.
So Frank took his time and moved as quietly as he could. The barn loomed in front of him, dark as a tomb. He stepped inside the open door, skin on his neck crawling as he realized he must be silhouetted against the lights of the house. Once inside, he could hear nothing but Sarah contentedly chewing on hay.
He crept along the aisle, eyes straining in the palpable blackness. The fear grew. He couldn’t help but wonder if Theo was watching him, stalking him. A tiny spot on his back, right between his shoulder blades grew hot and tight, as if there was a laser sight pointed right at him. He whipped around, but the aisle was empty.
The horse stopped chewing and watched him warily for a moment.
In the sudden silence, Frank could hear something else. From out back. Out behind barn. Where they had left the lion. A hushed grunt. Then, hissed between clenched teeth, “See? See? I told you, you bitch. I told you.”
Frank swallowed. Sarah put her head down and tore off another mouthful of alfalfa. Frank moved to the far end of the barn, gently easing his boots through the dust. The hoarse grunts continued. “You. You. You.”
Frank peered through a crack in the sliding door. Out in the grass, under the stars, Theo had his jeans down around his knees and was hunched over the back of the dead lion, fucking it. His white ass pummeled lion, making the big cat’s corpse shudder with each thrust. “You. You. You.” Theo said every time he slammed into the lion.
Frank had seen enough. He’d seen more than enough. He doubted that all the rum in Jamaica would erase the image. He tried not to run back to house, acutely aware that if Theo knew he’d been seen, he’d probably kill whoever was watching him. When Frank got back to the garden, he forced himself to stop for a moment, collect himself, slow his heart, watch his breathing. He went back up on the deck, got himself a beer, and told Sturm he couldn’t find Theo.
DAY SEVENTEEN
Frank dosed half a pound of ground lamb with Acepromazine and fed it to two more cats and the tiger early in the morning. They loaded the first of the lionesses and hauled her back to the ranch.
This time, it was Fairfax’s turn. He’d managed to squeeze back into his new clothes. By now, everyone knew his boots hurt like hell. Pine stationed himself by the horse trailer, while Chuck was a good twenty yards away at the pickup, and they had some fun calling him back and forth, asking Fairfax to watch the lioness for a moment, then calling him back over to the pickup to ask him what kind of caliber he thought was the best. Fairfax never did figure it out. He just thought they were being nice to him because it was his turn, and so he just kept hobbling around.
Like before, Frank and Pine opened the gate and swung it back around while everyone else waited with their rifles back by the pickups. No one was ready. Everybody expected the lioness to simply sit there, like with Theo. But with a streak of tan fur, the lioness erupted from the trailer and was simply gone, as if the cat was bending the light somehow, slipping through the morning sunlight in a hazy mirage.
It leaped over the barbed wire fence and was halfway to the house before Fairfax had even gotten his eye through a scope. As soon as he caught a glimpse of the animal, he fired, jerking repeatedly on the trigger of the semi-auto like he was scratching a nasty itch. But it was like trying to shoot a bumblebee out of your yard with a slingshot.
Bullets exploded into the back of Sturm’s house, spiraling through wood siding, concrete, glass. Sturm shouted into the gunfire, but Fairfax either wouldn’t stop or couldn’t hear. Finally, Chuck and Sturm jerked up their rifles and fired. The lioness went down in the garden. The gunfire died.